


Rainy Day

by i_claudia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkwardness, Fear of Discovery, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-06
Updated: 2008-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:39:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had started as a perfectly normal, lazy Saturday, the grey rain quietly sluicing down the windowpanes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainy Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2007 round of the_12th_night, originally posted [here](). (06 January 2008)

It had started as a perfectly normal, lazy Saturday, the grey rain quietly sluicing down the windowpanes. Ron had watched it all morning from the warm comfort of his bed, wrapped in his quilt, moving only when the rumbling of his stomach began to drown out the soft drumming of the rain on the roof. He’d been poking around the kitchen in his pyjama bottoms, looking for the bag of Chocolate Frogs he knew Harry had hidden somewhere, when an explosion hit the front door. 

Instincts he hadn’t needed in months took over, and he dropped to the ground, whipping out his wand and knocking the milk over in the process. He’d already begun the reflexive protective charms when his brain caught up with him: he remembered that the war had been over for over a year, and as Hermione had worked on the wards for the flat, it was unlikely that any Death Eater could have found it.

He stood up, dripping with milk, and stepped gingerly over the broken glass on the floor. “Hold on!” he yelled to whoever was pounding on the door, grabbing a shirt off of the back of one of the wooden kitchen chairs and pulling it on. Who could possibly be standing on their doorstep in this weather? he wondered, making his way quickly to the front door. He peered through the peephole and scowled. “Figures,” he muttered, yanking the door open.

Ginny stood outside, soaking wet, her chin jutting out in a defiant posture Ron knew well. She was covered in mud, and her hair, normally fairly tame, was a tangled mess. He sighed. “What do you want?” he asked, not especially caring if it came out sounding rude. He’d been looking forward to a quiet day, for once. “You know Harry’s off on a mission with Robards all weekend.” The head of the Auror Department had taken a shine to Harry, and frequently took him along on missions in order to ‘develop his impressive skills’. Harry complained that it was all due to his ‘Chosen One’ status, but Ron privately thought it was because Harry was damn good at what he did. Ron wouldn’t say he was jealous, exactly—he and Harry had been through too much for that kind of pettiness—but he did wish sometimes that Harry was a _little_ less brilliant at everything he put his mind to.

“I know that, Ron,” said Ginny, narrowing her eyes. “Look, can I come in, or are you going to make me stand out here all afternoon?”

Ron sighed and stepped back to let her through, closing the door behind her. He followed her as she squelched through to the kitchen, where she leaned her broomstick against the wall before sitting at the table and wringing out the hem of her robes. Ron leaned against the counter and gazed at her for a full minute, tracking a drop of water as it ran down her face and onto her neck. When he realized what he was doing, he wrenched his gaze away. He was _not_ staring at his little sister, of course not. He was definitely not wondering how she... He clamped down firmly on the thought. They’d always had a strange sort of relationship, he and Ginny, but he supposed that came of being from a strange sort of family. Being the two youngest and having to band together for protection against the twins when they were younger had probably not helped, he supposed.

In the end, he decided to ignore her. Whatever she was here for, she’d get to in her own sweet time—he knew well that Ginny did not take kindly to being pushed. With a few flicks of his wand, he cleaned up the mess of the shattered milk bottle and dried out his own clothes, smiling wryly at the thought that he was perhaps becoming a bit domestic. He rather thought Hermione would approve.

There was a small noise behind him, and he turned around to face the table, meeting Ginny’s steady gaze. She quirked an eyebrow in question. “Making a mess of things while Harry’s away?”

“You startled me with your bloody hammering on the door, is all,” he said defensively, flushing.

“Well,” she said, with a familiar half-smirk, “I’ll try not to cry too much over it.”

He scowled. “That was just plain bad.” She favored him with a wide-eyed innocent look, and went back to drying her robes. Ron shifted his feet, trying to think of something to say, but came up with nothing. Ginny had a special talent for getting under his skin and making him feel completely, utterly useless. What was it with the women in his life? he wondered. He obviously had some kind of magnet in his forehead that attracted strong-minded, out-spoken women.

“Er,” he said finally, more in hopes to distract her from enlarging the puddle slowly growing under her chair than to actually make conversation, “what... I mean... could you...”

Ginny stood up and stretched, interrupting him before he could stumble any further into a hole. “Would you mind terribly if I used your shower, brother mine?” she asked, walking over to him.

“I suppose,” he said hesitantly. “Why...”

“Thanks,” she said, standing on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek. “I hardly feel human right now.” 

Ron had never been much for patience—he knew avoidance tactics when they smacked him in the face, and there was no way he was going to let his baby sister use them on him. He put a hand on her arm as she walked by, and she flinched. “What’s going on, Gin?”

She tried to shake him off, but he hung on. “Let go of me, Ron,” she said, eyes flashing. 

He set his mouth mulishly. “I think I deserve to know what’s happened when my little sister shows up on my doorstep unannounced and looking like hell,” he insisted, then yelped and dropped her arm as she bent his finger backwards towards his wrist.

“It’s none of your business,” she said coldly, and left the room.

He waited, cleaning up the mess she’d made on the chair and floor. His hand tingled, which he firmly told himself was because she’d obviously screwed up a nerve or something when she’d bent his finger. He flexed the hand and scowled. It had nothing to do with the warmth or softness of Ginny’s arm, nothing at all.

When he heard the shower clunk on, he gave up all pretense of nonchalance and made a beeline for the fireplace. Hermione, he knew, would be able to shed some light on what was going on with his sister.

Hermione was drinking tea and writing what appeared to be scathing notes on a copy of the Daily Prophet when his head popped up in her fire. “Hermione!”

She dropped the paper and jumped, whipping her head around and automatically reaching for her wand. “Good lord, Ronald!”

He tried to look sheepish, but it was difficult through the Floo. He must have looked at least vaguely contrite, though, he thought, because Hermione came over to kneel down in front of him. “Sorry,” he said. “But Ginny’s just turned up at the flat and I’ve no idea what’s going on.”

She frowned, tapping one finger against her mouth. “Is she looking for Harry?”

He shook his head. “No, she said she wasn’t. She turned up out of the blue and won’t tell me why.”

“Maybe it’s none of your business,” Hermione remarked, and he snorted.

“It’s my—well, Harry’s and my flat—and my shower she’s using. I’m pretty sure that makes it my business.”

Hermione sat back, thinking. After a few moments, she snapped her fingers, and he looked up hopefully. Here came the solution; he’d known it was a good decision to come to Hermione.

“Quidditch try-outs for the Montrose Magpies were today.”

Ron looked at her incredulously. “Ginny was trying out for the _Magpies_?” Hermione nodded. He blinked. “The _Magpies_? _Ginny_?” It was impossible.

“Yes, Ron,” Hermione said impatiently. “Your sister was trying out for the best team in the league—don’t look at me like that, I know a bit about Quidditch after hanging around you and Harry for eight years—and if she won’t talk about it, chances are it didn’t go well.”

“The Magpies!” Ron said again wonderingly. He wasn’t sure _he’d_ have the bollocks to go out for the Montrose Magpies. They only took the very best players, the cream of the cream of the crop. They’d sent Harry a letter inviting him to try out—but then, he thought, Harry _was_ the best.

“Will you stop nattering on about the Magpies, Ronald?” Hemione demanded. He shook himself. “Look, Ginny’s probably there because she needs a bit of space and a shoulder to lean on, someone who won’t make her feel worse about not making the team.”

“And she came to _me_?” Ron asked, incredulous. “Why me? I’m not... you know, I’m not her favorite brother or anything like that.”

Hermione sighed and looked at him with an expression that was half fondness and half exasperation. “You two were always close, Ron. Just... be there for her. Try to be understanding; that’s probably all she needs right now.”

Ron would have protested, but the noise from the shower suddenly ceased. “I have to go,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll talk to you later, yeah?” Without waiting for a reply, he pulled his head out of the fireplace and began dusting himself off, trying to remove any traces of the firecall. So, he thought. The Montrose Magpies. The best team in Britain, arguably the best team in Europe—though the French would probably dispute that just on principle—and they’d turned Ginny away. And now it was up to him to make her feel better? How in the name of Merlin’s bloody left toenail was he supposed to do that?

_Understanding_ , Hermione had said. He heaved a sigh. _Understanding_ was not really his thing, but Hermione usually knew what she was talking about. And this was Ginny: he didn’t have to tiptoe around her or worry about what she thought, since she was always very clear about her views on nearly everything. _Very_ clear.

He scrubbed his face with his hands. He had no intention of incurring Ginny’s wrath or getting hexed, so maybe he’d have a go at this _understanding_ thing. It probably couldn’t make things worse.

He stood for a moment in the kitchen before making a decision and striding towards the bathroom. Ginny was taking an awfully long time—she must have gotten distracted by something after she’d gotten dressed, he thought. He’d just find her and talk and be _understanding_. Hermione always knew best.

The bathroom was still steamy, but empty. Ron ventured farther down the hallway, wondering where Ginny could have gotten to. “Ginny?” he called hesitantly, but there was no answer. He finally pushed open the door to his bedroom, looking cautiously around. Ginny sat on the edge of his bed, knees pulled up to her chest, dressed in an old pair of his pyjamas. She looked up at him from beneath the fringe of her damp bangs, and his stomach gave a strange sort of lurch to the left. 

“Hey,” she said with a wan half-smile. “Hope you don’t mind I borrowed these. All my things are wet.”

He shook his head, ignoring the small voice in his head that wanted to know why she wasn’t able to perform a simple drying charm. _Understanding_ , he told it firmly. He walked over and sat down next to her, carefully keeping a gentlemanly distance between them. She might be his sister, but with Ginny it was always good to stay out of her personal space.

“So,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I, er, that is...” She turned to look at him, settling her back against the headboard and stretching out her legs, and he could see that the top button on the pyjama jacket was unbuttoned, and bloody _hell_ ; he was going to rot in hell forever for seeing that much of his sister’s skin and thinking that maybe she should have left one more button undone. He coughed, feeling himself turn red, but Ginny didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. _Understanding_ , he thought wildly.

“Look,” he finally managed. “I heard about the Magpies. That the try-outs were today, that is.”

She looked down, tugging at one of her sleeves. Ron watched the collar of the jacket as it tugged away from her neck to reveal more of her freckled shoulder until he realized she was speaking. _Rot in hell_ , he reminded himself, and then, for good measure, _Understanding_.

He didn’t understand this hold she had over him. If he thought about it, it seemed like it had always been there. He remembered pulling away from King’s Cross for the first time, waving out the window to a little red-haired girl who was crying and running to keep up, remembered feeling like his insides were tangling themselves together—not because he was homesick, but because he had to leave her behind. He remembered the relief when Harry rescued her from the Chamber, the resentment that it hadn’t been himself who had saved her, remembered finding her with Dean and feeling nothing but white-hot anger and jealousy. He didn’t understand it, and he didn’t like it.

“...should have known better,” she was saying. “Maybe I was too cocky going in, thinking I could make the cut. You should have seen it, Ron! They can really fly!”

Ron pulled himself back to the present. “So can you,” he said staunchly.

She shook her head. “Harry was always better,” she answered ruefully.

“At Seeking, maybe,” Ron argued. “But you were a better Chaser than anyone else on the team.”

Ginny laughed and reached forward to pat his hand. “Thanks, brother,” she said with a smile. Her hair swung in front of her face, and Ron caught a face-full of its scent—his shampoo, mixed with something inherently Ginny. Her hand stayed on his, its warmth sparking all sorts of unwelcome thoughts. He flushed again and looked down, cursing his libido. Damn. Clearly he needed to get laid more often, if it led to this.

“Why did you come here?” he blurted out before he could think better of it, and promptly clamped his mouth shut. Brilliant, he thought to himself sourly. You’re being _ever_ so clever today. What in Merlin’s beard possessed you to say that, when things were going so well?

She drew back. “I thought... I mean...” As she struggled, Ron cursed himself ten ways from Sunday. Possibilities ran through his head. _No one else was home. I needed a place where I didn’t have to deal with people I like waiting on me. Looking at your miserable mug makes me happier about myself._ Couldn’t he have just let well enough alone?

“This was the first place I thought to come,” she said simply.

Ron’s heart sank. Of course. Harry lived here—of course she would run to him first. He was the one who’d saved her time and time again, after all. For a moment, he had a shining vision where he stood in victorious glory, a much smaller Harry looking up at him in consternation and jealousy, while Ginny gazed at his luminous self in... Hell, he was bloody pathetic. Repeat after me, he told himself sternly. She. Is. Your. Sister. You have no romantic feelings for her. None at all. And even if you did, they would just be because you’re a normal young guy whose girlfriend has decided to hold off on the physical aspects of the relationship. Perfectly normal, rational behavior.

“I see,” he said, and couldn’t help but feel the sharp stabbing in his gut. “I’m sorry Harry wasn’t here and you had to put up with me.”

Ginny gave him a look that clearly told him she was questioning his sanity. She wasn’t the only one, he thought miserably. “Ron, you idiot,” she said. “I came here because of you.”

He looked up, uncomprehending. “Me?” he asked. “Why me?”

She shrugged, tugging at her sleeve again as she thought. “You’ve always been there for me. Sometimes I want to claw your eyes out with my bare hands, and sometimes you say exactly the right things. And maybe...” her hand strayed towards his again.

“Maybe?” he whispered, not daring to breathe, to hope, that maybe...

She yanked away suddenly, standing up and walking to the window on the opposite side of the room, looking out at the rain. “Damn,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “What have we gotten ourselves into?” She looked beautiful even in crisis, Ron thought distractedly. Her figure stood out sharply against the light from the window, a lone silhouette against the outside world.

He got up, moving to stand behind her as she stared out the window at the grayness beyond. “Bugger if I know,” he said softly.

She turned around to look at him, searching his face for something. “Each time I see you,” she said finally, “I tell myself that this time, it will be the last time, this time, I’ll be stronger.” She poked him viciously in the chest with her forefinger to emphasize the point. “Every single time, Ron!”

He winced, rubbing at the sore spot where her nail had jabbed him. “You think I don’t?” he demanded. “You think I like this, that I’m _okay_ with it? Shite, every time I’m with Hermione I’m scared stiff I’ll slip and say the wrong name. You think this is _easy_ for me?” He shook his head, the familiar warmth of anger thrumming through him, making him brave. “Hell,” he said with feeling.

Ginny turned back around. They stood in silence for a moment, and Ron held his breath almost unconsciously.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, the words halting. “I thought it was just a phase,” she said. “You know, teenage experimentation, that sort of thing. I thought we’d outgrow it.”

Ron stood absolutely still, waiting.

“It took me a while to figure it out; to figure out why my feelings for Harry never went as deeply as I thought they should, to figure out why you—Merlin, you pissed me off so much, it seemed, and still I couldn’t break away.” She turned back around, her expression hard and determined. “But now... fuck, now it’s too late. I’m going to see _you_ , Ron,” she said angrily, and he took a half step back, preparing to flee if needed, “in every man I’m ever with, damn you. I can’t... do you know, it _physically hurts_ to stop myself from touching you, to pretend that nothing is different or changed when we’re at the Burrow? Damn you, Ronald Weasley,” she said, her eyes blazing now, and Ron started to think that perhaps he should be truly in fear for his life, “damn you for being such a clueless, self-absorbed, cowardly prick of a _bastard_!”

And with that, she kissed him. Ron opened his mouth to shout with surprise, and she flowed into it, fighting him, possessing him.

He broke away, panting. “Shouldn’t we,” he started, trying manfully to ignore the swell of her reddened lips, the predatory look in her eyes, “I mean, what if someone comes in?”

“No one’s going to come in,” she said, sliding her hands up his arms. He shivered “Harry’s gone all weekend, and Hermione’s got her house elf self-help group this evening. There’s no one here but us.”

“Well,” he said, and cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “That could be dangerous.”

She laughed, a low chuckle that crushed the rational part of his brain into useless mush. “Very dangerous indeed,” she replied, and pulled him back into a kiss. Her hands slid underneath his shirt, tugging it upwards, and he struggled out of it, tossing it aside. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, marveling at the softness and warmth of her body; warmth which Hermione had never quite matched. He worked at the buttons on her shirt, needing to feel more of that exquisite heat, and she shrugged out of it, letting it slither onto the floor.

He backed up slowly, pulling her along, still needing to feel her body against his, until his back hit the bed post and he stumbled. They fell together onto the floor, all tangled limbs and silk-red hair. Ginny lay on top of him, laughing, and after the pain in his shoulder from his awkward landing had faded somewhat, he joined in, chuckling.

Ginny propped up her head on her hands and looked down at him from where she lay on his chest, and he reached up to touch her, running his fingers along her familiar jaw line and over her shoulders. “Ron,” she began softly, but before she could say any more, the bell Harry had attached to the fireplace in the kitchen as an incoming-Floo alert system began to ring.

Her eyes wide, Ginny scrambled up off of him and dove for her abandoned shirt, wrapping it around herself. Ron hauled himself up onto his feet as quickly as he could and struggled to compose himself. Fuck. It couldn’t be Hermione, he told himself; he’d just talked to her. And it wouldn’t be Harry, couldn’t be—Harry was on a mission all weekend, he thought, starting to panic. What if the mission had ended early and Harry was coming back early? Bloody buggering hell, what if Harry walked in on them like this? Fuck, he thought again. Where was his shirt?

He made a grab for Ginny as she tried to open the door, catching her by the elbow. “Wait, Gin, don’t go out there. Let’s just...”

“Pretend we’re not here?” she asked. “Of course, Ron, that will work fantastically. ‘Afternoon, Harry; no, you can’t come in at the moment, I’m busy shagging your girlfriend-who-happens-to-be-my-sister.’ Yes, I’m sure that’ll do the trick.” She gave him an almost-contemptuous look, but made no effort to pull away. He tightened his grip.

“Please. Just... be quiet for a minute.”

They stood still, straining to hear any sound of movement, any voice in the flat other than their own. The Floo bell kept ringing. Finally, it clicked over, and Ron tensed, praying fervently to whatever power was listening.

“Ron!” a voice bellowed. Ron frowned, not moving, his hand still clasping Ginny’s elbow. The voice was male, familiar, but not immediately identifiable.

“Ron, you bastard! I know you’re there!” the voice called out. Seamus, Ron thought in exasperation. He’d bet anything that the git just wanted someone to go to the pub with. Well, Seamus would have to find someone else.

“You’re still sleeping, aren’t you,” Seamus grumbled from the fire. “Ah well, I’ll just have to find someone else to go with tonight, seeing as you can’t be arsed to get out of bed. Wish I could sleep like you, mate. Me mum took care of that, though. Up every morning by dawn.”

Still grumbling, he ended the firecall, and Ron relaxed as silence crept back into the flat. Ginny took the chance and pulled out of his loose grip. Ron watched, puzzled, as she made for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Ginny glanced over her shoulder, her hand on the door handle. “Home,” she said, looking away again. Ron took a step towards her, then stopped, trying to collect his thoughts.

“Home?” he asked. “Why?”

She gave a short laugh. Ron noticed that she was still gripping the door handle, her knuckles slowly paling. “Damn it, Ron,” she said. “Just... take a minute and look at us. This is... it’s all wrong. Harry wants to marry me, and you’re supposed to propose to Hermione. We shouldn’t be... meeting... like this.” She trailed off, shaking her head emphatically. “You’re my _brother_. I shouldn’t be...”

Ron crossed the room in a few quick strides—he was mad, he knew, utterly mad, and the Healers would be coming for him any day now, but he _needed to know_ , damn it—and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Ginny,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”

She looked up, her mulish chin jutting out at him again. He slid his hand up to cradle her face, running his thumb along her cheekbone, and walked slowly forward, backing her up against the door. “I... Merlin, I know it’s probably twisted and sick and they’ll lock me away for saying it, but I love you, Ginny. I mean...” He struggled to find the words that had always been there, though he hadn’t known it. “I love Hermione, too. But you... you were always there.” Her eyebrows came together angrily, but he placed his free hand gently against her mouth. “I don’t mean that you were the easiest one. You were the first, the best.” He shrugged helplessly. “I know it’s an utter crap explanation, Gin, but it doesn’t change the way I feel. You deserve someone brilliant, someone like Harry. Harry’s a good man, except for maybe the fact that he’s sometimes unfortunately obsessed with Malfoy the Ferret.” He smiled crookedly and dropped his hands, and Ginny gave him a strange look.

“Ron,” she said, as if stating the very obvious. “You’re brilliant, too.”

“Nah,” he protested. “I’m... just Ron. You know, the sidekick, the comic relief.”

Ginny gave him another look that clearly told him exactly what she thought of that statement.

“Yes,” she said, hooking a finger into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and pulling him closer. “You’re Ron, and you’re brilliant, and you always discount yourself. Harry’s great,” she said, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair, “but I’ve always thought you were the best.”

Heat bloomed in his stomach and he grinned, feeling foolish and stupid for it but unable to stop the widening stretch of his smile. She flushed, and he leaned down, capturing her lips. Her arms went around his shoulders and she kissed him back fiercely as he pressed her against the door.

After what could have been hours, he finally pulled back, feeling reckless and more alive than he had in weeks. He looked down at her, eyes dancing. “You know,” he said, his voice husky, “we could always invite Harry for a threesome.”

Ginny tilted her head back and laughed. Ron took advantage of her distraction and leaned down to press soft kisses along her neck.

“I didn’t know you were that kinky,” she said, still laughing.

He raised his head and wiggled his eyebrows at her. “You have no idea,” he told her. “I have all sorts of hidden depths.”

She raised one of her eyebrows in return. “Do you,” she said, running a hand across his chest. “Let’s see how deep these depths of yours go.”

He grinned. Life was suddenly looking a whole lot better than it had that morning.


End file.
